looseleaf
by Wagandea
Summary: A collection of small fills for various challenges.
1. LMSS - i want my innocence back

_title:_ i want my innocence back

 _summary:_ He's only fourteen.

 _pairings, rating:_ Severus/Lucius, M?

 _warnings:_ Underage, dubious consent

 _word count:_ 293

 _challenges:_ 10 Pairings Challenge, Weekly Pairings Drabble Competition

* * *

It shouldn't be happening like this. Shirt rucked up, pushed painfully against a portrait frame in a shadowed corner of the Slytherin common room at past two in the morning, Lucius's fingers pressing bruises into his skin where it's stretched delicately over Severus's sharp hipbones.

" _Why?_ " Severus demands, but it isn't a refusal, and his shaking hands grip at the front of Lucius's Robes instead of pushing him away. He doesn't have to see the smirk Lucius presses to his jawline to know it's there.

"I don't see _Evans_ wishing you a proper happy birthday," Lucius drawls, drags his teeth over Severus's neck. It shouldn't be happening like this. Severus hisses, arches into the seventh year, involuntarily. He screw his eyes shut, doesn't want to think about Lily, can't, can't admit to himself that this is something he wants that she can't ever give him.

"Does your precious mudblood know what you get up to at night, hm Severus?" Lucius continues, voice razor sharp against Severus's ear, long fingers toying with the top button of his trousers. Severus's breath catches in his throat, and his head hits the surface of the painting with a painful thud.

"Does your darling _Narcissa_ know you go around fucking third years-and filthy half-blood ones, at that-behind her back?" Severus manages back, too out of breath for his tone to hold the appropriate amount of venom.

Lucius very nearly snarls, a fact that makes Severus feel both vindicated and aroused, and withdraws his hands. "Shut it, Snape."

It shouldn't be happening like this, but _Merlin_ , he wants it to. Severus watches him with dark eyes, a twisted smirk playing at his lips, and says, very quietly, " _make me._ " The smirk holds as Lucius pushes him to his knees.


	2. TRMM - just a day away

_title:_ just a day away

 _summary:_ Today the diary is just a diary.

 _pairings, rating:_ Tom/Minerva, T

 _warnings:_ None!

 _word count:_ 329

 _challenges:_ Pack a Punch Drabble Competition

 _notes:_ For reference - I'm keeping Minerva's original (pre-Pottermore) canon birthdate for this fic, the one which would have put her just a year ahead of Tom, while also keeping the Quidditch incident that injured her in the Gryffindor/Slytherin match of her 7th year.

* * *

This is where he buries her. All soft candlelight and white sheets and the herbal smell of healing remedies hanging heavy in the air. He sinks down into the chair opposite her bed, constructing a suitably concerned expression to face her with. Still in her Quidditch robes, she sits up a little straighter despite the clearly bandaged ribs, and snorts, waving him off with her unbroken arm.

"Piss off, Riddle," But she's grinning, a wild, unrestrained grin, green eyes lighting up mischievously, like she's about to tease him something awful. Something in his chest constricts. This is not a luxury he can afford himself anymore. "Come to admire Rosier's handiwork? Merlin's balls, whoever decided to let _him_ play beater should get a sodding bludger shoved up their-"

"I'd rather thought I was coming to see you," he counters, high voice quiet but never soft, the touch of a frosty edge ever-present, though always less so around her. "And to tell you goodbye before summer holidays start."

She bristles at that, and the vice on his heart tightens. "Too busy with exams to visit me, Tom?"

"Unfortunately." The diary is burning a hole in his pocket, but today it's just a diary. Her stare is burning holes in his eyes, but today he is just Tom Riddle. He could stay. This is in his power. He stands up, instead. "I may not be able to, later."

"Tom-"

He kisses her, before she can change his mind. Withdrawing, he keeps his eyes closed, keeps his hand cupping her bruised jaw, keeps his forehead pressed to hers.

" _Tom_." She's cross, irritated, going to say something else. He lets out an uncharacteristically shaky breath.

"I loved you." He didn't, really - but he _wanted_ to, and he owes her this. Out of all the lies he's told, that one is the hardest. Today the diary is a diary. Today Tom Riddle is Tom Riddle. Tomorrow, the horcrux. Tomorrow, Lord Voldemort. "Goodbye, Minnie."


	3. JPSS - wastelands

_title:_ wastelands

 _summary:_ "I hate you." "I'm sure you do." Western AU

 _pairings, rating:_ Severus/James, T

 _warnings:_ None!

 _word count:_ 580

 _challenges:_ Last Ship Sailing Competition (Round 2)

* * *

Nothing good ever came out of this town - not in the dust in the air or the clatter of horses outside. Not in the cheap whiskey the muggles drink when they huddle in the dark corners of the pub like they don't know any better. Not in the glittering charcoal of the schoolteacher's eyes where he sits at the end of the bar, slender fingers curling around his glass.

The barkeep is being watched and he watches back in amusement, a vicious grin parting his lips, and as always, the schoolteacher turns his head, caught in the act. The barkeep refills his glass anyway, even as he barks out over the rest of the tavern -

"Alright gents, that's enough, I was s'posed to close fifteen minutes ago! Christ, some of us have to sleep."

He won't be doing much sleeping tonight. The schoolteacher stays seated even as the rest of the patrons file out, suspicious glares thrown over their shoulders in wake.

"I suppose you're starting to wonder if they've figured it out yet. The reason your wife left you. The reason she never should have tried at all." The quiet murmur of his voice, razor-sharp steel under the softness, makes the barkeep flinch, the nervousness, the agitation, settling in his skin even as the schoolteacher reaches for him, drags him in close over the bar by the collar of his shirt.

"Fuck," the barkeep swears, eloquently, and he wants to punch him, wants to kick him out of the bar like the rest, wants to grab a fistful of his long black hair and kiss him, wants to - "Shut your mouth - I thought you weren't going to mention that again - "

"I lied," the schoolteacher says, matter-of-fact, impetuous, childish, the words whispered torturously against the barkeep's lips. "Let them talk."

"I hate you."

"I'm sure you do." A slender hand, too soft and lily-white and uncalloused for the lives that they lead, cups his jaw, slides up his cheek into his hair, and the barkeep's hat is tumbling to the floor as the schoolteacher threads his fingers through the dark curls and pulls, hard enough to hurt. "There aren't many other conclusions one could draw, the way you've been denouncing me at town hall meetings, telling those sordid stories about me to your son, as if he wasn't already performing abysmally in his lessons. By all means, carry on-"

He doesn't want to hear the rest. The schoolteacher's whiskey-loosened tongue is of more use here, being kissed abruptly, heavy-handed and filthy, because he doesn't know when to fucking shut up, when to leave well, alone, has to keep pushing until the barkeep is trembling with loathing and desire, unable to do anything, say anything, half mad with want.

And as the barkeep pulls him forward, up onto the bar among the empty glasses, the schoolteacher reaches for his wand, banishes the candlelight illuminating the tavern with a whispered _nox._ It's become a habit, this fumbling, this fucking around behind closed doors at night, in the dark where the barkeep can forget whose shirt he's unbuttoning with trembling fingers.

He pretends he doesn't hear the whisper against his neck, the desperation (" _I just want to know one thing, just one thing -_ "), and for one terrifying moment, James thinks Snape might tell him he loves him.


	4. JPSS - smoke sickness

_title:_ smoke sickness

 _summary:_ You watch him watch you.

 _pairings, rating:_ Severus/James, M

 _warnings:_ None!

 _word count:_ 797

 _challenges:_ Last Ship Sailing Competition

 _notes:_ This is actually a companion fic to another fic of mine, _to ashes_ , but I'm not too pleased with how it came out, so I may redo this at some point! (But for now it can live in the drabble collection)

* * *

 _i._

* * *

You do not like the way he watches you. It's not quite hungry, the looks he gives you, but something close, something else you don't want to, can't think about. Desperation, perhaps - it reminds you of the way he used to watch Lily all those years ago. It's all wrong. Everything is all wrong, it shouldn't be happening like this, his eyes on your mouth, on the smoke, lingering on the cigarette like it's the key to something, the release from the desperation in his eyes. You should offer him a cigarette. Maybe then he'll stop looking at you like that. You pocket the pack and the lighter instead.

* * *

 _ii._

* * *

He asks you, just once, in the aftermath of an Order meeting, everyone still filing out of the room and trying to pretend like they're not listening, why you chose to switch sides. It's the word choice that makes you sneer. _I didn't volunteer for this._ It was preferable to the other option. He doesn't ask what the other option was. You don't want to tell him, anyway, don't want to have to look him in the eye and say if _I didn't, Lily would be dead. If I didn't, you would be dead._

* * *

 _iii._

* * *

You had this dream once, seventh year, that it was Lily you were jealous of instead of James. That you wanted to be where she was, holding hands with him in Hogsmeade, stealing kisses between classes. In the dream, you wanted his hands on your body, his teeth on the delicate skin of your neck, you wanted him to kiss you, wanted him to fuck you, and when you woke up you still wanted him. You haven't been able to get the dream off your mind since, no matter how many other dark-skinned dark-haired boys you take to bed.

* * *

 _iv._

* * *

You don't know why you let him in. He looks so out of place in the peeling-paint walls and chipped tile kitchen, a cracked white teacup held in strong hands, and you're not looking at his hands, not thinking about how you want them in your hair, up your shirt. You've been staring at the clock, counting down the minutes until it's late enough you can show him out. You watch him watch you out of the corner of your eye, and when he finally moves closer, you close your eyes entirely, you hold your breath. And when he says your name, like a plea, a prayer-well, it's useless to resist him, isn't it?

* * *

 _v._

* * *

Your memory is made of light, a flame-like intensity, the feeling of his hands on your body, his teeth on your neck - it almost seems like a dream the next morning, because you haven't stopped having these dreams and it isn't until you're in front of the mirror, staring at the bouquet of violet-and-magenta marks flowering over your pale skin that it seems the tiny bit real. There's disgust at first, until the denial sets in, the panic. You didn't do that. You didn't. Everything is happening all wrong. He leaves a vase of fresh-cut flowers on your doorstep, like some misplaced romantic gesture, but smashing the vase on the cobblestones doesn't ease the sick feeling settling in your stomach, the bone-deep ache.

* * *

 _vi._

* * *

Sometimes you think Albus knows. Despite the carefully practiced occlumency, the discretion you've both been using, something must be showing, something must be slipping through the cracks… You wonder if it's you or James. Maybe it's you, maybe this is your problem, maybe it's your fault, just another weight to pile onto your back. You've been breaking, lately, and you want to tell someone anyone, want to tell Albus because maybe he'll tell you what a fool you've been, sleeping with a married man, falling in love with him - but Albus doesn't say anything in the end, just looks at you with sad eyes, knowing eyes.

* * *

 _vii._

* * *

You know from the way he's been watching you that he's about to say something. You wish he wouldn't. You don't like the things he's been saying lately, full of that same desperation he still eyes you with when he thinks you aren't looking. You're still smoking the cigarette but things always come full circle, don't they? It's October, edging on November. He tells you he loves you. You don't know how things got to this point. The air is crisp and cold but his mouth is warm and all you can do is breathe into the kiss, _I don't understand._ You should tell him you love him back but there's always later, always another day. _It's getting late,_ you tell him instead. _I ought to go before the trick-or-treaters start coming around, wouldn't want anyone to see something, would we?_ There's always another day.


End file.
